


Boxing Day

by Sibilant



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bonding, Holidays, Loneliness, M/M, Secret Saito, Secret Santa, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8937730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: It's not quite a Christmas tradition, but it is, nevertheless, a tradition.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MsBrightsideSH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBrightsideSH/gifts).



> A Secret Saito gift for MsBrightsideSH / deadbeforeithappens, who set the prompt 'tradition'.
> 
> Thanks to pyromancer and whiskyrunner for looking this over. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

It begins like this:

It's just past eleven-thirty in the evening, on the twenty-fifth of December, and Eames is drunk off his arse, riding the residual adrenaline of pulling off a string of lucrative jobs back-to-back.

The Christmas-New Year period is boom time for corporate mindheists, as CEOs and other assorted executives go on holiday, where their schedules are (usually) freer and security is (sometimes) laxer. Provided one times the jobs just right, the discerning dreamshare operative can ring in the new year with several six-figure payouts.

Eames is yet to see said payouts, the Christmas-New Year period also being a time of delayed and erratic banking, but never mind. The _promise_ of money puts him in a good enough mood to shout the team a round of drinks, which triggers a domino reaction of everyone shouting everyone else their own round of drinks, and ultimately results in Eames missing his flight, losing all his available money at the casino, throwing his wallet at a street mime, and having to resort to pickpocketing to tide him over (not necessarily in that order).

Alas, the first person he tries to pickpocket is Arthur.

"Can I help you with something, Mr. Eames?" Arthur says, unperturbed, like being ostensibly felt up by a sort-of colleague in the hotel bar is an everyday occurrence for him. Hell, for all Eames knows, it is an everyday occurrence for Arthur. Arthur is not unfriendly, but he is notoriously secretive; even after two years of acquaintanceship, the things Eames knows about Arthur could fill a post-it note.

"Yes," Eames says, pulling his hand away from Arthur's hip, and straightening up. "I appear to have misplaced my wallet."

"And you thought you'd find it in my pocket?" Arthur says slowly, and Eames is not so inebriated that he fails to miss the playful interest in Arthur's smile.

He is, however, far too inebriated to take proper advantage of it, because rather than responding with something arch or clever, Eames leans in and says, with the faintest touch of a slur, "Actually, I was hoping to find _your_ wallet."

Arthur's smile freezes for a second, before he cracks into startled, helpless laughter.

"Wow," he says. "Wow, okay. Points for honesty, I guess?" He shakes his head, grinning so widely that Eames finds himself grinning back automatically. "It's amazing how your accent can make even the least charming shit you say sound charming."

"Just my accent?"

"Well. Not just your accent, you're right." Arthur gives Eames another one of those appreciative once overs that Eames has caught sight of before, and then his smile turns faintly regretful. "You're seriously hammered, aren't you?"

"Not so much so that I wouldn't be able to rise to the occasion," Eames says, leaning in even closer, but Arthur stops him with a hand.

"While I admit that it's kind of tempting," Arthur says, "I generally prefer my bed partners to be— y'know. Sober." He clears his throat. "But if you need a place to stay for the night... I've got a room here. You're welcome to stay. It wouldn't really be in the spirit of the season, leaving you to fend for yourself on Christmas, of all days."

"You celebrate Christmas, then?" Eames asks - once he's gotten over Arthur's unexpected gallantry - because it's an unofficial game, in dreamshare circles, to pry personal details out of Arthur. Eames has always bet on Arthur being Jewish, but he's heard some people make a good case for Arthur being the product of some Christian fringe group.

(Then again, he's also heard Cobb, the man who arguably knows Arthur best, come close to selling a pair of newbies on the idea that Arthur is an escaped military cyborg. Dreamshare is the realm of lies, damned lies, and very few statistics.)

"I celebrate the secular aspects of Christmas, sure," Arthur says, a twinkle returning to his eye, like he knows exactly what Eames is aiming for, and Eames smiles, inordinately charmed. "Which is why I'm offering you a bed for the night." He pauses. "Technically half of a bed. But it's a king bed."

"I'm overwhelmed by your generosity," Eames says, as he follows Arthur out of the bar. He's only half-joking.

And he discovers that Arthur really wasn't joking either, about not sleeping with Eames while he's drunk; he chastely accepts the kiss Eames plants on his mouth (well... more the corner of it), then rolls Eames onto the other side of the bed and turns off the light.

The next day, though—

"You're not still drunk, are you?" Arthur says, breathlessly, after Eames jostles him awake by easing his briefs down and trying to stroke him into hardness.

Eames frowns. Arthur is gripping his wrist tightly, hindering any movement beyond a twitching of his fingers. "You're incredibly preoccupied with that."

"Yes," Arthur says, peering intently at Eames' face. "I know. It's just— I don't like confusion. Or ambiguity. There's so much morally grey shit in what we do, I don't— I don't want it in bed, too."

Eames tilts his head. It is perhaps the most revealing thing Arthur has ever said to him.

"Well," he says finally, "I am not still drunk. I am nursing something of a hangover, but it isn't impeding my judgement in the slightest. Alright?"

"Yeah," Arthur says, his mouth curling up into a relaxed, relieved smile. "Alright."

They don't get much further than handjobs, with a spot of frotting thrown in for variety, because Eames really is nursing a hangover and Arthur can't seem to shake his morning grogginess. But it's lovely all the same, because Arthur has no qualms about kissing, morning breath be damned, and he's wonderfully, vocally appreciative of Eames' body. They come with their legs tangled, their cocks slippery-slick, and their mouths brushing one another's, over and over.

And afterwards - when Eames is peering over the foot of the bed, pondering where his belt and his other sock have gotten to - Arthur says, suddenly: "Hey, you may as well— I mean, if you want, you can stay until you get your wire transfers sorted and your flights booked. Easier than trying to hunt down an open internet cafe." He stretches, with studied nonchalance. "And there are other perks."

"You put forth a convincing argument," Eames says, and abandons his hunt for his clothing.

That's the first Boxing Day they spend together.

 

* * *

 

It becomes a thing between them, without either of them really intending it.

Spending Boxing Day together, that is. Not Eames getting utterly bladdered and losing all his money and needing to crash in Arthur's bed. (Although that does happen a handful more times over the years, it’s always outside of the Christmas period.)

It's a slightly haphazard thing, because it isn't as if they lay down rules. But if once is chance, twice is coincidence, and three times is a pattern, then surely anything over that number is a— a _thing_. A tradition.

 

* * *

 

The second time, they don't really have much choice. They're working a job together in Western Australia, until suddenly they aren't, thanks to a double cross that neither of them see coming. Merry fucking Christmas indeed.

Arthur is tight-lipped, silently furious for most of their frantic midnight run, talking only when they need to switch cars or to give Eames directions.

But once they hit the Nullabor, Arthur at the wheel, he unstiffens just enough to grit out, "Sorry."

Eames glances sidelong at him. "For what?"

"For not seeing this coming." Arthur scowls at the windscreen. "For— shit, I don’t know. For fucking up any holiday plans you might've had."

"Arthur," Eames says, not ungently. "If I'd had any holiday plans, do you really think I would've accepted this job?" He looks out the window, at the Nullabor's Mars-like landscape, made even eerier in the pre-dawn gloom. "Besides, I have very little desire to continue the Christmas traditions of my youth."

It's not that much of a confession. After all, people with stable home lives generally don't end up international criminals. But maybe Arthur hears something in his voice - or perhaps he simply reads too much into it - because Arthur's granite expression softens a little.

"Yeah," he says. "I know how that is."

They're silent for a few more kilometres, until Eames glances at the dashboard clock - 4:19AM - and says, "Well. Happy Boxing Day, at least."

Arthur gives him a blank look.

This is how Eames ends up explaining the noble tradition of Boxing Day in a long, meandering ramble that just so happens to takes them away from any distantly depressing memories.

"That is some serious lord of the manor shit," Arthur says, once Eames is done. And then he proceeds to launch into his own meandering explanation of the equally venerable (according to Arthur) tradition of something called Punkin Chunkin.

 

* * *

 

Eames still isn't entirely sure what all of Arthur's reasons are for sticking to their Boxing Day tradition, because Arthur still takes a bloody-minded joy out of avoiding Eames’ plays in the pull-confirmed-details-out-of-Arthur-like-pearls(-or-teeth) game. But for Eames, it feels far too much like to an overly-maudlin admission of loneliness.

Eames isn't lonely. Often alone, yes, but not _lonely_. There's a difference.

But there's something... odd - yes, that's the word - about being alone during the Christmas holidays. Social conditioning is a bitch to shake, no matter how old you are.

 

* * *

 

The third time, it’s Arthur who misses his flight.

Unlike Eames, Arthur is not without funds nor horribly drunk, but this doesn't seem to help him any. After several hours of watching Arthur try (and fail) to obtain a decent hotel room for a decent price, Eames thinks, Well, one good turn and all that.

"Enough of that," he says, plucking Arthur's phone out of his hand mid-call. "You can stay at mine until your flight tomorrow."

"Goddamn it, Eames," Arthur grumbles. "You couldn't have offered before I lost hours of my life making phone calls?"

"Careful now," Eames says. "Keep that ungrateful attitude up and I may decide to charge you for the overnight stay."

"I'll pay that fee," Arthur says, and he lets his smile turn filthy. "Provided you take payment in trade?"

Eames gives him an answering smile, and they walk a little faster to the car.

 

* * *

 

They end up lingering that year, and see in the new year together.

Sort of.

Eames is pounding into Arthur, seconds away from a top-grade orgasm, when - unbeknownst to him - the countdown ends, and fireworks go off in the distance, to the accompaniment of cheering in the streets.

It isn't until Arthur starts laughing uproariously that Eames realises what's going on, and that no, the cheering really isn't for him.

It utterly kills the mood, but for some reason - as Arthur wipes tears of laughter from his eyes, grinning hard enough to make his dimples pop - Eames can’t find it in himself to mind.

 

* * *

 

The fourth year—

Technically, there isn’t a fourth year, because the fourth year is the year that Mallorie Cobb dies, the year that Cobb vanishes, and Arthur vanishes with him.

But even if all that hadn't happened, Eames isn't sure he and Arthur would've continued their little tradition, because their last job together had gone horribly south.

They'd snarled at one another in the aftermath, professional insults careening into the personal, culminating in Arthur snapping, “God, no wonder you always spend the holidays alone. I’m alone because my family’s dead, but yours just can’t fucking stand you, can they?”

It rendered Eames speechless for a second. Then:

“Fuck this, I’d rather take my chances alone,” Eames said, and stalked out of the motel room Arthur had just paid for.

Despite that, doing nothing on Boxing Day feels— wrong somehow.

So Eames sends a card. A virtual one, that is, to one of Arthur’s persistent e-mails, because God knows where Arthur is these days. He spends a ridiculous amount of time dithering over the wording of his message, the card image to go with it.

He eventually settles on a generic blue-grey image of snowflakes, and the message:

_Look after yourself. Here’s to a better new year._

_\- E_

Arthur sends a card back, in the wee hours of the morning.

_Thanks. You too._

_I’m sorry,_

is all it says. But the image accompanying it is a Star of David, rendered in bright, kaleidoscopic colours.

 

* * *

 

Eames is well aware that he is notoriously slow to forgive. Being aware of a failing, however, does not guarantee that one is immediately able to change it.

He goes to ground in Mombasa, lives off his savings for a while, then retreats into topside con jobs.

But then there is the Fischer job, with its first-on-the-ground thrill, and its reminder of how well he and Arthur can work together.

And Eames thinks: _well, at least we still have that_.

 

* * *

 

It ends like this:

It's just past eleven-thirty, on the twenty-fourth of December, and Eames is horribly, wretchedly sober, despite having pulled off another string of back-to-back jobs (and the Fischer job, to boot, only six months prior).

He's pondering whether he should have a shower or if he should just say fuck it and roll into bed, hibernate until the new year, when there's a knock on his door.

Eames opens it to find Arthur, with his hands shoved in his pockets, something he normally never does, because it ruins the lines of his suit.

"I don't— I know it's not Boxing Day," Arthur says immediately. "It's not even Christmas. I know this is not what we usually do, but—" He scrubs a hand through his hair, frowns off to the side for a moment. "I had some sort of line about traditions being made to be broken—" he stops when Eames snorts, a grin flickering across his face. “Yeah. I know. It even sounded shitty in my head.”

“If you want to maintain your illusion of mysterious distance,” Eames says, leaning against the doorjamb, “I’d recommend refraining from informing people of your terrible one liners.”

“But that’s the thing, Eames,” Arthur says. “I don’t want to maintain an illusion of mysterious distance. Not with you. I want— I thought, after the card, and the way you seemed to be not so pissed after the Fischer job, I thought maybe we could— _alter_ the tradition, a little. Expand it.” He gives Eames a hesitant smile. “If you want.”

Eames glances back at the studio flat he’s been renting for the duration of his jobs.

“I dunno,” he says slowly. “It depends.”

Arthur swallows, a convulsive little movement. “On?”

“How big’s your bed?” Eames says, angling his body so Arthur can see the twin bed he’s been sleeping on. “Because if it’s a king, that’s one aspect of the tradition I’m absolutely not willing to alter.”

Arthur laughs. It’s a bright, relieved sound in the cramped quiet of the hallway. “It is,” he says. “I’ve only ever rented rooms with king-sized beds, since— you know. “That first Boxing Day.”

“Oh?” Eames says, pleased. “Go on, tell me more.”

“Sure,” Arthur says. His smile is light, rueful. “What do you want to know?”


End file.
